


You, with your finery; who could you trust to see you debased?

by theLadyLazaruss



Series: The Coda Continum [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: "Therapy", Blow Jobs, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Coda, Dark Will Graham, Floor Sex, Hand Jobs, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Oral Sex, Therapy, Top Will Graham, Vulnerable Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23105530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLadyLazaruss/pseuds/theLadyLazaruss
Summary: Season two coda; after Will is released, before Randal Tier's death.Will and Hannibal discuss a killer in their therapy. With all his newfound knowledge, Will discovers another side of their brutal partnership; Hannibal is willfully transparent and Will is done pretending he isn't.Wrote in inspiration of CamilleCailloux, for all their bottom!vulnerable!Hannibal delight.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: The Coda Continum [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663306
Comments: 39
Kudos: 249





	You, with your finery; who could you trust to see you debased?

**Author's Note:**

> You come, you comment. 
> 
> I'm sorry! I don't make the rules!!

Will was aware of the desk behind him, where the wood bit his hamstrings. His knees gave infrequent, involuntary twitches. The shiny floor beneath him was very clean, except for the blur of their faint treads.

“Jack thinks that our killer is chasing a fantasy.” Hannibal prompted. He was leant back in his chair, legs elegantly crossed, his hands entwined on his upper thighs.

“Maybe he just wants people to be still.” Will stared at the floor. There was a single perfect footprint outside the blur. It was Dr. Lecter’s.

Hannibal’s face had a suggestion of amusement. “I can’t say I don’t share some of his sentiment.”

“Sympathising with a murderer, doctor?”

“Sympathising with the desire to be reflective. There is much in this world that we miss because of the demands of everyday life. It is easy to become lost in the chaos. Perspective can be a valuable companion.”

“Depends on the perspective.”

Hannibal pursed his lips. “Perceptions are often graded; they’re given a value. Do you think your perceptions are valuable?”

Will picked up a pen from Hannibal’s desk and played with it between his fingers. “I think my perceptions are unruly. Its value is in the purpose.”

“But not for its own sake?”

Will shot Hannibal a knowing look. “I value my own perspective, Dr Lecter.”

“As you should. Despite it’s wandering nature, the clarity to your perception means you perceive the world as an informed source. You can see people the way they want to be seen.”

“I see their delusions,” Will spat. “I see madness giving reason to method. Using every part isn’t honouring a corpse; a mushroom can’t actually reach back. These perspectives are valuable only for catching murderers.”

“And the value is great enough that you will endure its side–effects?”

Will turned away. He needed a break from Hannibal's relentless attention. "Yes."

“You admit their effects but not their severity?”

“Isn’t that why I have you?” Will fired back.

“You have me as your guide, Will, but when your mind drags you into shivering corners of darkness and blood, I cannot protect you. If only there was a way to redirect the energies of the minds inside you.”

“My work with Jack Crawford redirects them.”

“Your work with Jack Crawford sends them deep into you.”

“I am not cotton, Dr Lecter. I know who I am.”

“Does our killer?’

Will tsked. “He is in complete control of himself. He doesn’t kill to torture or for revenge. He uses a long filleting knife to deliver a single stab wound between the ribs, and through the heart. He knows who he is.”

“Does he depict something he misses? A quieter time?” Hannibal asked, recalling the staged scenes. “Perhaps an ordinary beyond his means.”

Will shook his head. "This wasn’t beyond his means. No bruising, no defensive wounds. He’s not killing to seek a thrill. Imogen Michaels was found at her dinner table, placement set for one; Lachlan Etuchias set against his headboard, bed disturbed. Belladonna blocks neurotransmitters. Victims experience lethargy, tiredness, hallucinations… ”

“They would only realise they were affected when it was too late,” Hannibal finished for him. His chin tilted. “By the time they realised their fates, they would be unable to fight back. Edward Hopper painted scenes of ordinary life, through the lens of gentle melancholy. Perspective, colour and ambiance, all surrounding a lonely subject. The director doesn’t want to damage his actors. A single stab wound to the heart with a filleting knife would keep his actors unblemished and their injuries easily hidden.”

Hannibal was unblemished, Will thought. Untouched. Immaculate. Everything so meticulously kept. Will wasn’t a slob by any means. He had dogs and boat motors, but he kept his house ordered. Everything about Hannibal was alarming elegance; deep colours and obscure art; dustless floors; shiny Oxfords; plaid and paisley of all kinds, crafted with armoured construction.

“He is creating art,” Will said. Hannibal’s gaze was a physical weight on him and he felt a little too warm.

“Like the Ripper?”

 _Narcissistic arsehole._ “No, no, the Ripper’s art is theatrical and dramatic. Made for a captive audience. This killer doesn't need that." Will stared out into the neat office, sunk in another man's thoughts.

“Will?”

“His material would be as close to life-like as he could make it,” Will said, and absently pushed himself away from the desk.

“He moved the bodies after death,” Hannibal said and unfurled his hands and legs to the boundaries of his chair, “he replicated their snuffed life as if they hadn’t died.”

“Replicated.” The verb tasted sour. “No, not a replica; preservation-" Will’s foot knocked the leg of Hannibal’s chair and he jolted. He loomed above Hannibal, who looked up with a carefully neutral expression. The knuckles of one spread hand was close to Will’s knee.

“What is he trying to preserve, Will?” Hannibal asked quietly.

Will stared down into Hannibal, and felt the cold draft of an abysmal door.

“The quiet contemplation of the lonely,” he said, and returned to safer ground, back to the desk.

Hannibal stood and strode easily to Will's side. If he knew the way Will tracked him, he didn’t let it show. Maybe he was just used to being watched, used to drawing the eye of the room. But to Will, he was a little more transparent. He was encouraging Will’s attention. Will didn’t know what to make of that.

“Spending time in one own’s company can be an equally rewarding and… reflective exercise.”

Will shifted beside his psychiatrist. “And self–indulgent.”

“What indulgences have you allowed, Will? What lies coiled in your home when you are alone?”

Wil’s lips parted. Hannibal wasn’t playing around now. Was this how a desperate Hannibal acted? 

“I’m never alone.”

“Your dogs provide some company, yes, but they can't completely fill the silence. Do you talk to them in the absence?”

“I talk to them.”

“Do they reply?”

Will closed his eyes and smiled. They were so close now, orbiting in still motion, like planets. How could Will be on an earth hurtling hundreds of thousands of kilometres a second through the vacuum of space, but remain still? With the same lull and gentle caress of the gravity of Hannibal Lecter.

“In their own way.”

“In the crowded silence of your thoughts.” Hannibal murmured, sucking and sipping at the air between the words as if drinking. “Do you find peace?”

“…no.”

Hannibal smiled. In the dip of his throat, there was a quiver. This so carefully put together man. His body betrayed him in delicious shivers. Blatant want scratched against the soft bone area of Will’s skull, deep inside. It wasn’t entirely his own.

“Tell me, doctor,” Will said, curled himself in Hannibal’s direction, as if poised an inch above gleaming jaws, tempting the beast with macabre desire. “Do you find peace?”

Hannibal, with delightful shock, found it difficult to remember the gentlemanly response. Carefully curtailed and tailoured, his person suit was made for sheep and lesser predators. It wasn’t made for an equal.

A ferocity existed inside Will. Unique and so beautifully untamed, and by its virtue, virginial, even by Will’s own touch. It woke an aggression inside Hannibal so fierce, it could hardly be contained inside himself. But contain it he must, until the moment of breach.

“A peace of my own making,” Hannibal replied, a beat too late. He wanted Will to keep talking until the sun flooded this dark hush with holy light, if only to see the white flames dance over Will in his purest, rawest form.

“Of your own making,” Will huffed. He tipped his head back and exposed the steep column of his throat. Hannibal’s jaws ached. “What would that feel like, I wonder?”

 _It exists in you_ , Hannibal thought, and was captivated for a second by the intoxicating vulnerability of speaking those words out loud. _A peace I could only know in you_.

Will looked at him then. In their duality of friendship and ferocity, they experienced such a breach of mutual separateness, and Hannibal had the absurd thought Will had heard him.

“Lonely,” Will finally breathed.

Not so absurd at all. What existed within Hannibal, a mate existed in Will.

“Is it lonely?” Will asked.

“Not entirely,” Hannibal replied, uncharacteristically looking away, until fingers on his forearm brought him back to their shared _thrum_. Will was so close now, his mouth hovered just within reach.

“But enough.” Their shared energy crackled between his teeth.

“Enough,” Hannibal echoed. “to scream inside.”

“I could use a good scream,” Will said and tasted Hannibal’s breath on his lips. “I can feel one. Perched beneath my chin.”

The pouring water from morgue cabinets rushed to the front of Will’s mind, along with the insidious swell of darkness that bulged from the flesh of dead and butchered pigs. His scream was tucked just within reach, beside polite company. He could scream. Right now. Inside this dark hush. He could scream, and rage and laugh and roar and Hannibal wouldn’t be afraid. Hannibal wouldn’t politely recoil, wouldn’t retreat or berate, or punish.

_I'm a good fisherman, Jack_

Will was sick to his soul of punishment. Sick of disgust, sick of guilt. Sick of tearing himself inside. There was so much blood in him, so many soft bones and fragile scaffolds. So much he held onto, because he wanted to be a good man.

He wanted to be a good man. He didn’t want to be afraid. He didn’t know how to reconcile the two.

“Let it out,” Hannibal breathed. His fingers dug bruises.

“If I let it out,” Will whispered, “I wouldn’t make it stop.”

They hung by skin to the breadth of the precipice. It was so shocking they had ended up here, so unshocking the same.

“Let it out.”

Will lunged and caught Hannibal’s cherry lip. There was too much teeth. Hannibal surged against him, and pressed him back against the desk, hands sunk into his curls, neatly trimmed nails scrapped up his scalp like claws, and he worried the plush of Will’s mouth, sucking and biting his lips as they parted with wet sucks, bumping noses and trailing kisses.

He had strangled Mariam Lass, and shoved Marissa Schurr onto antlers, and carved Andrew Caldwell in half, and his heart barely rose above resting, but kissing Will Graham, running his tongue inside his mouth as Will arched and pressed against him, his heart galloped.

Will, with the entire length of his body, forcibly shoved Hannibal back, until the doctor was against the desk instead of him. The jolt broke their kiss, and when Hannibal tried to recapture it, his face sunk into Will’s hair, his mouth and nose full of decadent crested curls. He greedily sucked in Will’s scent, tasting the sweet tang of Will’s arousal that fell off the detective in waves as Will attacked his throat with teeth and tongue. Hannibal moaned. He _ached_.

Will, lips and tongue, equally languid and vicious, played with the tucked column of Hannibal’s throat. He felt the doctor’s shiver against his teeth, the puff of his breath against his ear.

“All my knowledge and intrusion, Will,” Hannibal sighed, his trousers hissing as he brought his knees up, opening his hips.

Will was panting. It was so loud in his ears, even above the quick drum of his heart that drowned out every thought but _soft_ and _more_. But his body knew what it wanted. He stepped into the cradle of Hannibal’s thighs, held the doctor in his arms, passed his calloused hands over his broad back and dragged the swell of his groin up in a deep, hard roll. The fingers in his curls clenched tight, before they remembered themselves and let go. They fell to his shoulders. The grip wasn’t too much gentler. Will ground again. Harder. Slower. Sharper. Tested each grind against the _zing_ it sent up his gut

“I would make you sing for me, dear Will.” Hannibal purred. Will’s body was a line of hot marble against him and he warmed himself against it. “I would make you my gallows.”

“That sounds possessive.” Will replied, licked his lips, clawed the swell of Hannibal’s expensive ass.

Hannibal arched. The desk bit. He caught Will’s eyes and held them. “Do I need to be clearer?”

Eye contact overwhelmed him, consumed him, but Hannibal never seemed too much. He hung close, whisper close, but didn’t grope, didn’t invade and plunder the way others did. Or maybe he did all those things so obscenely, indecently, tastelessly, that Will couldn’t begin to delineate himself from him. Will would have felt less exposed if Hannibal had peeled his skin back. He hung on that precipice between want and fear.

Hannibal made him feel vulnerable. Hannibal made him feel brave. Hannibal made him _ache_.

“I want this,” Will said.

“I want this too.”

“Is this a dream?” This could be a dream. He grabbed a firmer handful of Hannibal, and the doctor sighed.

“Is this what you dream about?”

Will shook his head. “I couldn’t imagine you like this.”

Hannibal smiled with peeking teeth. “Like what, Will?”

Will kissed him, thoroughly, and trailed his tongue between the doctor’s lips. Their clothes hissed where they brushed. Hannibal swallowed, the peak of Will’s nipples firm under his fingers, and Will inhaled and tasted rich salt and masculine cologne. Will dragged his eyes over the mess he had made of Hannibal’s throat, up the hang of Hannibal’s lips and the flush of his cheeks, to the red hunger of Hannibal Lecter’s eyes. Hannibal’s veil was beginning to unspool, and Will was suddenly consumed with the desire to see it ravaged completely.

“You’re flushed,” Will said, “and you’re sweating.”

Will shoved him. The doctor’s shock was only betrayed by the slight fluttering of his lashes and the flare of his nose. His elegant hands arrested his fall. Will didn’t give him time to recover. His thumbs sunk into in the expensive plush of the doctor’s hips and he dragged him to the very edge of the desk, stretching the length of his body. It was the most wanton display Will’s had ever seen from the doctor. Saliva pooled in the pits of his jaw.

“And you’re…,” Will slid a hand over Hannibal’s hip, reached between them, and pressed the swell of his palm against Hannibal’s swollen zipper curling his fingers. He massaged the straining material. Pleasure sung up Hannibal’s spine, and he curled his toes behind Will’s knees.

“Desperate,” Will finished.

Hannibal wanted to move with Will, but the angle was off. He had no leverage. He could only balance, and take what Will gave him. “You seem surprised that I would be vulnerable to desire, Will,” Hannibal said, as if discussing the weather, but a single sweat droplet slid down the architecture of his brow.

Will passed a hand down the straining buttons of Hannibal’s waistcoat, circling back once, twice, and then up to his chest, fingers peppering and pinching, until Hannibal’s stomach jumped, entirely involuntarily. The grin felt feral in his face as Will did it again, pinched harder, pushed too hard. The low grunt Hannibal made ignited something dark inside Will.

Will grabbed the lapels of Hannibal’s suit jacket and flipped it down to his elbows, and popped each button of Hannibal’s waistcoat, flipped that too, and tore at his tie. A part of him wanted to slow down, wanted to savour, wanted to peel open Hannibal’s armour like the pretty package it was. He ignored it; until he felt the soft press of hair.

His hands stilled on the shirt buttons, thumbed the expensive material, before he proceeded at a much slower pace. He used the full span of his hands, opened the shirt like wings to reveal the dense thatch of Hannibal Lecter’s chest hair. It rose and fell with each steady breath Hannibal took. It looked incredibly soft. Although he’d given it no conscious thought, the dark forest looked completely right; hidden beneath fine clothing and finer manners, the beast lurked.

“Is there something on your mind, Will?”

A pedestrian comment, far below par for Hannibal, Will thought, as he lowered his hands. Hannibal’s back slowly rose to an arch in anticipation, and Will felt a fiendish delight and slowed his descent, even hovering a moment, before he sunk his fingers into the soft curls.

“You’re not vulnerable to anything as mundane as sex.”

“There is,” Hannibal snarled, “nothing mundane about you.”

Will grinned and snatched open Hannibal’s belt. He unzipped him and reached inside. He cupped Hannibal’s shaft in an insultingly light grip through his silk underwear. The doctor grunted, dark eyes on fire.

“You would let me do anything to you.”

Hannibal’s teeth flashed, his thighs flexing, fingernails scratching at the hardwood beneath him. “You have no idea.”

“I have an idea.”

Will tore the silk apart. Hannibal’s cock slapped meatily against his stomach and the cannibal hissed. Will gave him a stern look, and Hannibal swallowed, eyes restless between Will’s mouth, Will’s hair, Will’s eyes and Will’s hands.

Hannibal wanted to throw him to the ground, wanted to shove himself inside Will until they were seamless, weave himself deep enough their souls bled. But…

But Hannibal remained sprawled on his desk, under Will, impolitely ravaged, and he waited.

Will curled his worn fingers around Hannibal’s cock and gave it a slow constricting stroke. Hannibal jerked; his arms trembled, restricted by expensive tailouring. His head fell back, chin butting in a silent, helpless cry, before he forced himself upright again and stared at Will. Will drank his weakness like fine merlot.

“You could make me. You could force me. You’ve done it before.”

Hannibal whimpered his name.

“But you won’t.” Will pursed his lips and let saliva fell over Hannibal’s cockhead. He’d never held another cock in hands before, not felt its throbbing thickness between his fingers. Not held its heady power, another man’s pleasure, in his cruel grip.

Hannibal couldn’t staunch his moans. The loss of control was intoxicating and his sounds rumbled through his office with the obscene squelch of Will Graham’s hand on his cock.

“Why would I–” Hannibal gasped, attempted to continue, but then he was lost to a another moan – Will had scooped his thumb up his glands, and tasted him – and Hannibal dropped to his elbows and surrendered to the pleasure of Will Graham’s hands. He’d dreamt of those hands; on his cock as they were, but also on his back, on his neck, twisted in soaked sheets, buried in squelching intestines, streaked in black blood and his own fingerprints.

“You won’t force me,” Will continued, arm bulging with veins, “because you want me to do it. You want me to move you, to take you–”

Hannibal’s hand flew to Will’s curls, yanked them in his fingers, and Will snarled with beautiful teeth.

“What do _you_ want, Will?” Hannibal bucking into Will’s cruel hand.

“I want to watch you come,” Will growled, his hand a blur, “I want to watch you come all over yourself.”

It was filthy. Utterly obscene. Hannibal tossed his head and tried to force Will’s back too, but Will resisted him and smacked his other hand against his throat. Hannibal’s arm gave. He sprawled against the desk, palms up in supplication of his wild god. Will loomed above him, pinned him, forced pleasure from him, and tears welled in Hannibal’s eyes as he finally let the storm in Will’s eyes take him, pleasure like a tsunami, drowning the halls of his mind palace in huge, shuddering, blue waves. His cock splattered over Will’s fist and his jumping stomach. It arched up, dusted his chest hair and splashed wetly against his ruin throat between Will’s fingers. His mouth yawned, strained against its fleshy seams, as he broke.

There was a simpering, desperate voice, that rang in Hannibal’s ears like church bells. It was his own.

Will’s hand clenched and rippled, and squeezed every last drop, until Hannibal’s hands flew to still him. They trembled, desperate and weak. Will fought them a moment and nastily drew up Hannibal’s cock until the tears finally spilt, and he let go.

Letting go of Hannibal’s cock, Will fell back and landed hard on his arse. His trousers choked his erection and he winced. His hand cramped but he ignored it as he released himself and sighed. He stroked himself with his other hand as he stared up at his ruined psychiatrist.

Hannibal’s world was water and white noise. He coasted the edge of consciousness, gasped in hard gulps, until his traitorous heart finally slowed, and gave him a moment of clarity.

The wet squelch of a clumsily worked cock reached his ears. He licked at bloody lips and raised himself.

At his feet, still between his thighs, Will stared up at him and jerked off.

Hannibal, poised and graceful as a jaguar in all other aspects, rolled from the desk, and attempted to control the fall to his knees.

Will sneered at him, but it was softened by love and anticipation. He slid his hand low, cupped his balls, his cock directed outwards in invitation.

“Reciprocity, Dr. Lecter?”

Will was expecting a clever retort, but Hannibal only prowled between Will’s spread thighs, raised his lips above his teeth, and buried Will’s dick in his throat.

“FUCK!” Will yanked Hannibal’s hair, his hips bucked, his eyes rolled.

Hannibal purred around him, tongue and mouth working in rhythmic slurps. He kept Will’s cock on the precipice of too deep, choking between swallows. Precum lined his molars and slid behind his tastebuds. Saliva slid down his chin in thick slivers.

Will’s hands were lovingly sharp. They clenched his hair, his nape, his back. Callouses and ragged fingers scrabbled for a vicious grip, accenting the beautiful, sporadic measure of Will’s strangled moans and frantic cries as Hannibal sucked and lapped each inch of Will’s cock.

Will threw back, shoulders landing hard into the carpet. He clamped the top of Hannibal’s head between his hands, planted his feet, and bucked. The doctor choked, coughed. Will waited a beat, still half–buried inside, before he did it again. Hannibal was prepared for it and swallowed. He took it like he was dying for it in clenching, tense pulses, until he wrenched himself back and coughed again, far more violently.

Will watched as Hannibal smeared saliva and precum over his lips and cheeks. He was ruined. Face beetroot red, eyes bloodshot, tears streaming, and Will felt a measure of pity, but far more malicious delight. Hannibal reached for him again, fingers curling, his mouth extending open, but Will planted a firm palm to his forehead. The doctor froze, tongue fat. His glazed eyes flashed dangerously; a predator denied.

“Go slow,” Will heard himself say. “You’ve waited so long; don’t spoil yourself.”

Hannibal’s mouth clicked shut, his expression suddenly shy, suddenly unsure, like an admonished child. Will liked that.

“It’s okay, Dr Lecter. I’ll take good care of you.”

With an encouraging nod, Will slowly lowered the obedient Hannibal and watched. He watched Hannibal close his tongue and lips over his head and Hannibal stared right back. He tracked each reaction from Will as he used his lips to hold his cockhead in place, swirled his tongue over his slit, and sucked in spongey, sloppy motions.

“ _Jesus_." Will broke their eye contact first. He had to clench his eyes against the onslaught, his toes curled his shoes. He sweated through his clothes. With a watery blear, he peeled open his eyelids and watched Hannibal swallow around his mouthful, and felt his precious palate massage his shaft. “God, Hannibal, suh- _uck it out of me_.”

Hannibal’s eyelashes fluttered. His head bobbed, mindless of his obscene slurps, sucking, sucking, sucking, sucking, _sucking._ Will wrenched his hair like horse reins and kicked out his feet

“That’s it – fuck – FUCK, _HANNIBAL!_ "

Will shoved Hannibal down, his forearms braced to keep him there, and he burst into Hannibal’s throat like warm champagne.

Hannibal savoured the come that gushed over his palate. It poured over his lolling tongue, down his working throat, and he worried each jerking wrench of Will’s cock and resisted the yanking hands, until Will was seized with hysterical spasms and begged him to let go. He pulled away, reluctantly, and with a wet slurp of air.

Will was sprawled on the carpet like a string-cut puppet. His eyes stared beyond Hannibal’s high ceiling, glazed over with unfocused sight that swung sightlessly between the runs of plaster. Hannibal licked at his teeth and swallowed again. He needed water.

As gently and delicately as he could, he tucked Will away, and stood. If he staggered, if he had to grasp a chair for support, panting into his palm, an elbow on his knee, Will didn’t see.

As he walked, he pulled the dregs of his Armani underwear from between his thighs. The distressed silk fluttered in the air. He tucked away his soft cock, bareback into his trousers. In the private bathroom beside his office, he paused beside the sink, and slowly worked his cheeks.

The taste of Will flung itself through the wings of his mind palace. Its texture splattered itself into the porous brick of his chapel, its scent burrowed into the floor. Will’s frantic orgasmic cries sung themselves, in an infinite loop, in vivid splashes of colour through the halls, echoing endlessly, backwards and forwards in time, before he buried his face beneath the tap and gulped deeply. His throat angrily protested but it was easily ignored.

Well, not easily. And not entirely ignored. Each moment of abuse played back in his mind and gave Hannibal a feverish, urgent delight he only fractionally understood. He was a man in his fifties but the slow bubble of arousal warmed the pit of his belly. Will’s fingernails in his scalp; Will’s heels in his back; Will’s testicles hitting his chin; Will's fracture cries of his name; WillWillWill – Hannibal yanked himself back from the tap and faced his ravage self in the mirror.

He was _ruined._

His face was a mess of spit and wayward white streaks, eyes and cheeks puffed with blood. His shirt and waistcoat and jacket hung wrinkled and damp from his shoulders, and fluttered around the crusted come on his stomach and chest.

He blinked, like the click of a camera lens, and then grabbed a cup from under the sink, filled it, and left the bathroom.

Will had curled onto his side, head rested on his hands, fingers delicately laced. It was incredibly lovely. His wild god in the satisfied aftermath. Next time, they would be in a bed, Hannibal promised. Next time.

Hannibal approached silently, sat beside him a moment a little longer, and then drew Will into his arms. The detective grumbled the entire ascent and Hannibal felt a pang of devastating affection.

“Please, Will,” Hannibal murmured into his curls, “drink this.”

Will put up with exactly two seconds of hand-drinking before he took the glass and finished it in three powerful gulps. Hannibal took the glass away. He didn’t flinch when he felt curious fingers in his chest hair, but he did close his eyes, and sigh in quiet pleasure.

“Hannibal,” Will whispered.

“Yes, Will?”

His fingers curled. “Am I dreaming?”

Hannibal kissed into his saturated curls, breathed in the cacophony of his wonderful scent, and held him. “If you are dreaming, then I am too.”

Will shook his head. He sniffed wetly. “I don’t want to wake up.”

Hannibal heard porcelain shatter against fresco walls. He could see the shards in his mind; a dainty handle, a ruined saucer, milk teeth in refuse. He buried his nose beside Will’s ear, breathing deep. He felt the world turn beneath him. Time passed. Events began and ended in every variation they could. There was no help from a capricious God. There was only yet undisappointed hope.

“Stay with me, Will,” Hannibal whispered, and then stronger. “Stay with me.”

Will lifted his head and kissed him. It was fragile and sweet.

“Only if you stay with me.”

Hannibal’s eyes teared up. He couldn’t believe it. “Always, Will,” he murmured. _Always and forever_.

Will closed his eyes and saw himself with Jack.

_I’m a good fisherman, Jack._

_You hook him, I’ll catch him._

A fisherman lures his prey and pulls it from the water with victory, so why, between his ribs, inside his heart, did Will feel the skewer of the hook?

**Author's Note:**

> Wooooof. God did not want this fic. He deleted from my hard drive and made me write it again, and then He purged it from my laptop and I had to write it again a g a i n. And it turned out more beastly and angsty than it was ever meant to be. I just wanted Will to give Hannibal handy and and Hanni to give Will a gobbie. Is that too much to ask???
> 
> Please show your love for it. I know its not anal, but damn, this took so long to write. So freaking long. Too long.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it. And if not, I hope you at least went, 'eh, s'alright.'. In fact, leave a comment suchlike, and I will smile and hope the next fic doesn't incur the wrath of Lady Fate.


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